Death By Blankets
by Carlough
Summary: Renard is a horrible patient, Monroe keeps trying to feed him herbal remedies and Nick thinks cuddles solve everything. Nick/Renard/Monroe


**Response to a prompt at the Grimm Kink meme.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Grimm or any of it's characters. I do own a horrible sense of humor and a disturbing love for writing sickfics.**

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Rotten food smells disgusting to signal that it's unfit for consumption. Likewise, Renard liked to believe that sick people looked like death warmed over to warn their idiotic mates away from them, lest they get sick as well.

It wasn't working.

The fight had been lost from the first cough, a loud hacking into a handkerchief that had earned him the concerned stare of a Grimm and a rather scolding expression from his Blutbad, directed not at Renard himself but at his cough, because how _dare _any illness think it could take down the great Prince of Portland. Sean had waved the pair away with a scowl and a glare, but that one cough had put him on their radar, and apparently after that they had nothing better to do than hover like the mother hens they not-so-secretly were, because that was when the coddling started.

Renard loved his mates, he really did. He liked holding them, and kissing them, and he was even known to cuddle if his mates really wanted (and if there was no risk of being seen), and then there was the sex. He really, really liked the sex.

But love for his significant others (and the sex, he really liked that part, like really, you don't even know) was never, ever going to be able to overrule his deep-seated, seething, burning hatred for being coddled. (This could have had something to do with an overprotective helicopter mother, an independent streak larger than the Pacific and a horrible clumsy stage as a child, but Renard would never tell.)

Which was why he really, really didn't enjoy finding himself, within five hours of the first dreaded cough, bundled up on the couch in at least four different blankets, fleece pajamas (it was June, for God's sake! He didn't even _own _fleece pajamas!), a microwavable stuffed rabbit that gave off a horrible, cloyingly sweet lavender scent (really, Monroe? Really?), a pair of woolen mittens (mittens!) and one heavy, overly cuddly personal-space-challenged octopus-aspiring Grimm.

Sean imagined that if there was a Hell, it was probably cooler than he was right now.

This was _really _not helping his headache, which had begun this morning and in the last hour spread to become one giant full-body ache, or the fact that he was disgustingly congested. In fact, he couldn't even get to the tissues anymore, because in the process of bundling him up for an Antarctic trek, his Grimm had left the tissues on the coffee table, while his arms were regrettably pinned to his sides by both blankets and a wayward detective.

As if sensing that Sean was thinking possibly-semi-spiteful thoughts at him, Nick's head popped up and he smiled that blindingly white pretty-boy don't-you-just-love-me puppy-dog smile that made Renard's glare soften slightly. And then another cough racked his body and he stopped feeling quite so enamored.

"Hi," Nick murmured, still grinning like a lunatic as he nuzzled up against Renard's ear, one of the few parts of his body not encased in fleece and wool. He didn't even want to think about the fact that there was a rather ridiculous bright orange toque on his head ("You lose the majority of your body heat through your head!" Nick had said with an adorably determined pout as he pulled it down snuggly over the police chief's skull – after his arms had been immobilized, of course).

"Are you comfy?" the Grimm asked, nestling in ever-closer, a slight pressure on his shoulder letting Sean know that Nick was resting his chin on the mountain of blankets covering it.

"No," he replied bluntly, increasing his glare another notch. "I'm a sweaty, disgusting mess and I can barely move and my body hurts all over and I can't breathe through my nose and for the love of all that is holy, Monroe, get that swill away from my face!"

Monroe, who had abruptly appeared with yet another greenish-yellowish-brownish-sewer-waterish concoction, was less than cowed. Nick only smiled at him like he was being particularly adorable and squeezed him tight enough to be felt within the blanket cocoon.

"You just need a hug," he said in a serious, knowing tone. "You're grumpy because you're sick, and hugs always make everything better."

"And you need to drink this," Monroe cut in, sitting on Renard's other side on the couch. "It's full of natural, medicinal properties and it really helps me when I have a cold."

Sean stared. "That's what you said about the last seven mugs you poured down my throat, _forcefully _I might, add, because I haven't been able to see my hands for the last two hours and haven't been allowed to use a restroom for longer. I should have you both killed for this. I'm the goddamn _prince_." He did not cough pathetically after saying that.

"Awwww," Nick cooed, practically climbing on top of him. Monroe flitted about, still trying to edge closer with his latest horrific Mug O' Doom, as Renard most certainly hadn't taken to calling the pond scum-filled bits of cursed ceramic.

"It's good for you," the Blutbad pressed on, holding the mug under Sean's nose. The prince tried not to gag; it smelled like rotten lawn clippings. "I grew the plants myself!"

Renard paused in his hateful mind-rant to stare in growing horror at his mate. "You mean the weeds on your lawn?"

The Blutbad frowned in hurt. "They're medicinal herbs!"

"That you grow on the same lawn where you _mark your territory_?"

Monroe took a moment to pause in consideration before saying, "Well, not _on _the plants and besides, I washed them!"

Sean was somewhat less than assured.

"I don't care if you bleached them, I am not drinking another 'herbal remedy' and I _do not _need to be coddled like a child! I have a common cold and need sleep and quiet and that is what I am going to get, so if you will excuse me, I will be doing just that!"

He stood, feeling proud for asserting his dominance as royalty, and promptly fell over, pulled off-balance by his aching head and the blanket monster currently suffocating him, not to mention the Grimm hanging off of him like a parasitic leech.

"Oh my gosh, are you okay?" Nick fretted, still lying atop Sean even as his grabby-octopus-hands flew everywhere, poking and prodding the blankets as if they could somehow express any potential pain.

Renard glared, teeth gritted against his newly-awakened migraine, and said, "No, I believe the blanket-death-coffin has saved me."

Nick smiled in relief. "Oh, good. I told you the blankets were a good idea!" He gave Sean a smug look and a tiny kiss on the tip of his nose.

Sean was not charmed. He was most definitely not charmed. He was too angry and tired and miserable to be charmed.

"Just help me to bed," he said with a quiet, exhausted tone of frustration. Monroe knelt down at his head and petted his cheek just under the obnoxiously dayglo orange ski cap.

"If you drink the tea," Monroe sing-songed with a cajoling smile.

Renard officially hated the world.

Fifteen minutes, one bathroom break, two more blankets and the bastard child of sewer water and pond scum later, Sean was finally, finally in bed, though he could barely feel it through the blanket creature.

"You know," he told the ceiling conversationally, seeing as he was so firmly ensconced he couldn't turn over even if he tried. "This amount of blankets really isn't comfortable."

Nick's fluffy black head popped up to his right, peering at him over the blanket prison. "Are you sure? Because I like blankets when I'm sick. Blankets are _awesome_. All warm and soft and snuggly."

Sean would have sniffed haughtily if he could breathe through his nose right now. "Yes, well, some of us aren't so fond of blankets."

The Grimm frowned, lower lip jutting out in a pout. "Are you sure?"

Renard barely resisted growling. "Yes," he gritted out carefully, "I am sure."

His mate frowned at him but slowly complied, unwrapping layers of blankets until only one remained aside from the comforter and bed sheets. Just as Sean was sighing in relief and shucking off his mittens and hat, Nick grabbed him up and yanked him to the center of the bed, climbing half on top of his boss so he could rest his cheek on the other's chest and sigh contentedly, octopus-limbs holding him in a vice grip once he had the remaining blankets tucked firmly around the pair.

"Better?" he asked, bright blue eyes looking up at Sean through thick black eyelashes.

No, actually, he wasn't better, now he was getting hot again and sweating and he really needed to sneeze but couldn't do that with his Grimm's head right under his nose and once again someone had left the tissues way too far out of his reach.

But Nick was still giving him that tender, adoring, I'm-totally-not-an-octopus-look-how-much-I-love-you look, and Sean couldn't shoot him down now.

"Much," he murmured, doing his best to ignore how congested and nasal he sounded as he pressed a kiss to his Grimm's hair and finally, finally was allowed to close his eyes to go to sleep.

"Just one more mug!" Monroe shouted, careening into the room.

Sean groaned. He really, really hated his life.

But everything looks better in the light of day, as that annoying, rather untrue statement in Sean's humble opinion went. He was still sick, his muscles cramped like he'd been used as a trampoline in his sleep, he had to go to the bathroom like you wouldn't believe and he was a sticky, sweaty mess, he hadn't showered in a day, he smelled like sickness and Monroe's disgusting herbal remedies (i.e. toxic waste and a compost bin) and to top it all off, he had a stream of drool dripping down his cheek because he'd had to breathe through his mouth all night.

And the stupid light of day was bringing his headache back with a vengeance.

But then he caught sight of a pile of black fluff tucked under his chin (he prayed with all that was in him that he hadn't drooled on Nick's head) and Nick nuzzled his neck with a contented noise. He smiled softly and stroked the Grimm's hair lightly before a grunting snore to his left took his attention.

And there was Monroe, hunched over in a heavily stuffed armchair that he must have tugged to the side of the bed. His neck rested at what had to be a painful angle and even in sleep, his face was twisted with worry, his brows crinkled together in concern.

A white mug with a smiley face on it sat on the nightstand, herbal pond slime congealing inside it.

Sean felt his heart soften and he sighed, aching at the amount of tenderness shown by his mates and the fact that his back was cramping up like you wouldn't believe. He stretched his arm out, feeling his heartbeat pulse in it and that couldn't be healthy, to carefully smooth away the little worry wrinkles littering Monroe's brow. The Blutbad's face calmed and he made a happy snuffling sound in his sleep.

Sean smiled, drawing his arm back and sighing once again, nestling a tiny bit closer to his Grimm blanket.

So maybe he was miserable and sick and he hurt all over and looked pretty pathetic and gross and unprincely right now. He had two mates who loved him more than he deserved and cared about him even when he bitched and moaned and was a giant mopey pain in the ass. He may have felt sucky but at the moment, life was good.

And he still couldn't reach the goddamn tissues.

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